


Masked

by Yahtzee



Category: Masked
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Harry's friends are certain Draco's betraying him. Why doesn't Harry believe them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamsab](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=iamsab).



> Thanks to Tehomet and Rheanna for the betas!
> 
> This is set at the start of a theoretical seventh school year for Harry and Draco.

"What is it that you see in him?" Hermione said.

Harry didn't look up; he suspected Hermione was still  
bent over her books as well. It was easier to have  
this conversation without eye contact. "I don't know."

 

The silence of the library surrounded them for a few  
minutes. He breathed in the musty scent of the pages,  
stared down at the page of the Potions book he was  
studying. It showed the correct method for severing  
the wings of bats, for greater brewing strength.  
Careful attention had been paid to detail: sinew,  
tendon, the arteries that lead into the wing. Harry  
still preferred looking at the drawing to meeting  
Hermione's eyes.

"If you don't know," Hermione said at last, "why are  
you with Draco to begin with?"

"Because I want to be." He did not add, because I have  
to be. Because I couldn't do anything else. If  
Hermione really understood, Harry wasn't sure how she  
would react. Despite his uncertainty, he was glad that  
she wanted to understand. It meant that they were  
still friends.

Hermione hesitated, then closed her Charms book; it  
twinkled briefly before relocking itself with a series  
of metallic clicks. "Harry, I want to ask you one more  
thing. After this, I promise – I won't bring it up  
again. Not even if – well, I won't."

He recognized that tone of voice; it preceded her  
recitations in class, and her lectures about  
rule-breaking, and her latest mission statements for  
S.P.E.W. Focusing on the tiny claws at the end of the  
bat's wing, Harry said, "Go ahead, then."

"Are you certain you can trust him?"

Harry hadn't been expecting that.

Her words came quickly, tumbling one atop the other,  
high-pitched and uncharacteristically unsure. "Draco's  
family are still tied up with the Death Eaters, you  
know it wasn't just his father, don't you? And I don't  
mean to suggest that Draco is necessarily a traitor  
just because some of the Malfoys are, that would be  
unfair -- but the things he says – Harry, he could be  
one of them. And if he's one of them, and he's this  
close to you –"

"Hermione, stop." Harry wasn't angry. Only tired.  
"Draco won't betray my trust. He never could."

They were silent. He focused on a brass plate above  
the library door, one that had been mounted during the  
summer. In Memory of Neville Longbottom. His  
grandmother had refurbished the entire Herbology  
collection, in his honor. If the war went on much  
longer, Harry thought, Hogwarts would be filled with  
such plates, such gifts, the tribute of the dead.

Hermione finally whispered, "Do you – do you really  
love him, then?"

"I know him." Hermione didn't seem to think it was  
much of an answer. But Harry knew it was the only one  
he could ever give. It was the truth.

**

Harry had never imagined that Draco might think of him  
– that way – until the last Quidditch match of sixth  
year. The Gryffindors were still singing, "Weasley is  
our King" on the pitch, the beginning of what promised  
to be an all-night bash, but Harry was sweaty and  
tired. He'd ripped off his playing robes and his  
T-shirt, ready only for the showers.

When he jogged back into the equipment room, he'd  
known a few Slytherin players might still be back  
there, sulking. So he hadn't been surprised to see  
Draco shoving a resisting Bludger back into its box.  
But when Draco had glanced his way –

\--his eyes had swept down Harry's body, past shoulders  
and chest, belly and thighs, only a glimpse, only a  
second, and yet unmistakable –

\--Harry had felt it like a punch in the gut.

They stood there, staring at each other, breathing  
hard – from the exertion of the match, Harry had told  
himself, and for his part could believe. Draco's  
white-blond hair seemed to be the only light in the  
room. Neither of them said a word. Probably it hadn't  
been more than thirty seconds before he turned away  
from Draco, but those seconds played in his mind over,  
and over, and over.

During the summer, he had time to consider. To weigh  
the repercussions. To realize what people would say,  
what they would think. Sometimes Harry pushed the  
memory away. Sometimes he didn't.

Late at night, when he was alone in his room, he would  
reach down with one hand and try to think of Cho, or  
Fleur, or the pretty girl with curly hair who read the  
Muggle news in the morning. But even then – as he  
shuddered and sweated and ached for release – he  
couldn't help thinking: Draco wants this. He wants to  
touch me like this.

By the time seventh year began, Harry had known what  
he meant to do.

He had no opportunity until they'd been in school  
nearly a month, one evening after Potions, when Snape  
ordered them both to stay late scouring cauldrons.  
They worked in silence, backs to each other, until  
Snape finally left for dinner.

The heavy door swung shut, hinges creaking. As soon as  
he heard the thump, Harry glanced over his shoulder.  
Draco had already turned toward him, hands against the  
table's edge, as though he were bracing himself. Their  
eyes met, and for the first time Harry knew what his  
decision would mean – if he held true to it. If he  
dared to do what he'd imagined all summer long. The  
reality was a thousand times more dangerous than he'd  
dreamed, and they hadn't even touched.

Yet.

Two quick steps and Harry was with him, on him, mouth  
to mouth, body to body. His fingers were raw from  
scrubbing the iron-bellied cauldrons, tender and  
sensitive, making every touch torment. That night he  
lost his virginity in an empty study room, crying out  
in as much surprise as pleasure.

Afterward, Draco went back to the Slytherin tower, and  
Harry finished the cauldrons. The die was cast, and he  
had never questioned his choice that night.

**

"I used to think Hogsmeade could never get old," Ron  
said. He sounded a little too cheerful; he was trying  
too hard. "Who'd ever think Honeydukes could get  
boring?"

"After Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, everything seems  
boring." That got him a smile, a real one, and it was  
good to see. Since Ron had found out about Draco –  
Harry had never exactly told his friends about it, but  
he'd never tried to hide it, either – everything had  
been different between them. Of course, Harry had  
expected that and accepted it, but it didn't make it  
that much easier to endure.

Swarms of third-years jostled around them on their way  
out of the sweet shop, bags of sherbet lemons and  
Bernie Bott's clutched in their mittened hands.  
Through the shop window they could see the proprietor,  
his ever-present scowl as permanent a fixture as the  
cash register. "Always grumpy, that one." Ron shook  
his head. "What's that about, then? Being surrounded  
by sweets all day, making pots of money – seems like a  
good life to me."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe it's just Hogwarts weekends. He  
gets attacked by dozens of screaming kids who've eaten  
too much sugar."

Just then, a fourth-year with frizzy dark hair ran by,  
shrieking at the top of her lungs as two boys chased  
her with a Spontaneous Stinkbomber. Ron raised his  
eyebrows. "Never thought of it that way. For the  
people who live here, these weekends must be like the  
Ogrish Invasion of 932."

"Did you just remember something from History?" Harry  
only had to half-feign his astonishment.

Ron looked even more shocked than Harry felt. "Some of  
it must have sunk in. Don't know how."

"Hermione will be proud." His two best friends made a  
good couple, Harry thought. They seemed to be happy  
when they weren't fighting, and often even when they  
were. "She'll say it's because she's such a good  
influence."

"Tell her about this, and next practice I'll knock you  
off your broom." Ron's step hesitated, just briefly,  
but Harry knew what was coming. Tension knotted his  
shoulders, his back, his stomach. "Speaking of, uh, of  
romance –"

"I wouldn't call it romance." Sex on or against any  
available flat surface was something, Harry realized,  
but not romance.

Ron grimaced. "I'd rather call it that."

"Suit yourself."

"Hermione said she talked to you. About Draco." His  
friend's broad hands were crammed in the pockets of  
his robe, the fists visible even through the fabric.  
"Said you didn't want to hear it."

Harry fixed his eyes on the far horizon – soft shapes,  
the trees and homes, covered with frost against a gray  
sky. He wished for the textbook that showed the bat's  
wing, anything that would give him an excuse not to  
face Ron. "That's right. I don't."

Ron breathed out heavily, not quite sighing. After a  
brief silence, he said, "He could be lying to you.  
Setting you up for a fall. I know you don't like to  
think about it, but it's possible."

"Draco's not setting me up for a fall." Though  
sometimes, Harry thought, it felt like falling. Like  
plummeting through the dark, arms outstretched to  
catch the wind, the sensation almost indistinguishable  
from flying.

"Your dad never thought Peter Pettigrew was setting  
him up." Harry stopped short and stared at Ron. A  
blush made the freckles on Ron's cheeks all but  
invisible, but he kept talking. "They weren't – I mean  
– they were just friends, but they were good friends  
for years and years. Didn't matter. Wormtail betrayed  
him, killed him and your Mum and for all he knew, you  
too."

Some third years gamboled by, giggly with bottles of  
butterbeer in their hands. After they'd passed out of  
earshot, Harry said, "Draco isn't Wormtail. My  
father's life isn't my life."

"I know you – you like him, and all, but – Harry, you  
know what kind of person Draco is. He's the kind of  
person who could do that."

"Who could do what?"

"Lie to you. Even when you're together, even when he's  
telling you – I don't know what he tells you, but, but  
–" Ron's panic at trying to talk about romance and  
Draco in the same sentence might have been funny, in  
different circumstances. "—He could say all these  
great things to you, and be lying through his teeth.  
He could turn around and tell his friends everything  
you do, everything you say. Betray you in the worst  
way anybody could ever betray anyone. Draco's enough  
of a snake to do it, you know he is, you HAVE to know  
that –"

"SHUT UP!" The shout escaped Harry, against his will.  
Ron stepped back, but more as a matter of politeness;  
Harry could see that he wasn't surprised. He'd been  
expecting something like this. So had Harry, really,  
but it hadn't made any difference.

They were quiet together for a while, staring down at  
the frost-crusted ground. Harry wished he could  
explain, but knew he never could.

Finally, Ron said, "You know it's not because – not  
because Draco's a guy, right?"

Harry blinked. "Yeah. I know."

"Because I don't care about that."

Privately, Harry thought Ron might have cared quite a  
lot about that, at least at first, if his horror of  
Draco hadn't outweighed everything else. Probably Ron  
would now give his blessing to any other guy in the  
world Harry wanted to be with, as long as it wasn't  
Draco.

Of course, that wasn't going to happen.

**

Draco had a room of his own.

He got permission for it this year; the Malfoy coffers  
had opened up for the Board of Regents, and the right  
donation cleared the way. Sometimes Harry wondered  
what that meeting with Dumbledore was like. Other  
times he was just glad they had the broad, soft bed,  
the roaring fireplace, the four thick walls that  
closed them in from the rest of the world.

Reaching that room meant going through the Slytherin  
common room. It wasn't forbidden for students to visit  
the towers of other Houses, but he'd never gone into  
Slytherin before this year, at least not clothed in  
his own skin. The Slytherins stared at him, disdainful  
and amused, but their respect for or fear of Draco  
kept them quiet. Walking through there, with everyone  
knowing what he's there for, was embarrassing, but  
Harry found it preferable to Draco's one and only  
visit to the Gryffindor common room. Nobody there  
feared Harry, and the snide comments were not in short  
supply. That alone, Harry might have borne, but far  
worse was the way that some of them – Hermione, Ginny,  
Colin Creevey – had tried to be nice to Draco for  
Harry's sake. Draco hadn't responded in kind.

But once he got to Draco's room – he could stop  
thinking about that. He could think about what was  
more important.

Draco's hands were slim and smooth. Sometimes Harry  
just liked to close his eyes and think about nothing  
but those hands. Then Draco would kiss him, and it  
would be his mouth Harry thought about. Their kisses  
seemed to swallow up the whole world.

Was it still just the same battle between them? The  
same struggle for domination or control or  
vindication? Harry wondered that often enough when he  
had Draco's silky hair entwined in his fingers, or  
when their hipbones collided, sharp edges of bone  
pressing through the flat muscles of their bodies.

When Draco spoke to him – they didn't do all that much  
talking, most nights – it sounded as though nothing  
had ever changed. "What's the matter, Potter?" he  
would pant in Harry's ear. "Can't last any longer?"  
The taunts might have been about Quidditch, about a  
wizard's duel, any of the countless battlegrounds  
they'd chosen for each other over the years.

But in the end, every night they were together, Harry  
triumphed. When they were covered in sweat, bodies  
entangled, excited already beyond the point of  
frustration, Draco would be the one to give in. He  
rolled over on his stomach, a simple and wordless  
surrender that set them both free.

In one of Aunt Petunia's romance novels, a younger and  
curious Harry had once read that the submissive  
partner was always the dominant one, really. Sometimes  
he thought about that as he gasped out the last of his  
passion and sank down, his forehead against Draco's  
back.

**

Ginny sat up with him by the fire one night in early  
spring, talking with him about anything and everything  
in the world as they played chess. Really, Harry  
thought, she was just letting him talk – coaxing him  
out of the shell he'd created the past few months with  
clever questions and a sympathetic ear. He tried very  
hard not to think about how familiar that pattern had  
become. But he knew that if the pattern held, trivial  
questions would soon give away to important ones – as  
soon as the others were all gone, and they were alone.

After midnight, Seamus and Lavender parted at the door  
to the girls' rooms with a few last, lingering kisses.  
Ginny raised her eyebrows, but Harry didn't smirk. He  
had little enough reason to mock anyone's love life at  
this point.

"Poor Neville," Ginny said as soon as Seamus had gone.  
Harry frowned at her; there were many reasons to say  
that, but he was at a loss as to why Neville was more  
to be pitied at this moment than at any other since  
his death almost a year before. Seeing his confusion,  
Ginny added, "He had a bit of a thing for Lavender,  
you know."

"No. I didn't know that."

If Neville had lived, would he have made a move? No,  
Harry thought. He would still be watching Lavender  
across the room, lovestruck and lonely. Every once in  
a while, he thought about all the days Neville wasn't  
going to have, all the things Neville was too  
frightened to do, the life his friend would never  
lead. Those memories strengthened his resolution about  
Draco, his conviction that he'd done the right thing  
by acknowledging that fleeting revelation of desire in  
the Quidditch room. No more time wasted. No more  
opportunities lost.

They'd reached the point in the dance when Ginny would  
ask the hard questions, dig in for deeper answers.  
Harry was ready for that. He was not prepared for her  
to simply withdraw a small blue phial from her robes  
and set it on the chessboard between them. "Vassuage  
elixir," she said. "It detects betrayal between, well,  
people who are close. The fluid starts to glow, and  
remains that way for hours."

Harry stared at the small phial. "You need a piece of  
one of the partners' bodies for Vassuage," he said.  
He'd read about it in one of Hermione's advanced  
Potions books, which she'd pressed on him in  
preparation for their O.W.L.s. "It's like Polyjuice."

"Hermione brewed it up," Ginny said, brushing her red  
hair away from her cheeks. Her skin was flushed  
slightly pink from the heat of the nearby fire. "Ron  
pulled some hair from your comb."

"I don't need this," Harry said. "But – I understand  
why you all did it."

"Really and truly?"

He took her hand in his, just for a moment. "Really  
and truly."

"Will you take it with you, then? Not that you need  
it. Not for yourself." Ginny leaned forward, and her  
robes brushed against the white figures of her  
chessmen. "For your friends, because we care about  
you. To make us feel better. Will you, please?"

"I'll take it." Harry palmed the phial as he gestured  
to his queen, which was menacing her bishop with rude  
gestures. "Better do something about that, don't you  
think?"

After that, they played the game with true  
concentration and enjoyment. Ginny went up to bed  
around 2 a.m., and as her light footsteps faded on the  
stairs, Harry remembered the crush she'd had on him  
long ago, how different everything might have been.

Then he took out the Vassuage elixir and stared at the  
swirl of blue for a few seconds. One quick pitch and  
it shattered in the fireplace, turning the flames an  
electric green for a few seconds before it evaporated  
and was gone forever.

**

The last Hogsmeade weekend of the year emptied the  
school of all but its youngest students – and those  
who had better things to do than buy candy.

Draco stretched beside him in the bed, lazy and spent.  
"You're not going to be an Auror. You wouldn't do  
anything so ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous." Harry didn't let Draco bait  
him. They couldn't have spent time together any other  
way. "Though I don't know if they'll take me in the  
training program."

"Oh, they'll take you." Draco rolled onto his back so  
that they were side-by-side. His foot brushed against  
Harry's calf. The day's heat was already oppressive,  
and even the thin sheet that had covered them had been  
kicked to the floor long since. "The great and  
powerful Harry Potter? Nothing Dumbledore's  
bootlickers would like so much as to make you their  
boy wonder."

"It turned out I wasn't so great and powerful after  
all," Harry reminded him. "It was Neville all along."

"Turned out Neville wasn't so great and powerful  
either." Adrenalin surged inside Harry, and he bit  
down on his tongue to keep his silence. "The boy from  
the prophecy could've killed Voldemort, but he didn't,  
did he? The prophecy turned out the other way round."

Deep breaths, Harry reminded himself. "Still. Neville  
was the one in the prophecy. Not me."

"Tell it to the readers of Witch Weekly. They still  
take on over you. Ridiculous, really." Draco sat up,  
then shook his head fast enough to ruffle his hair.  
"It's too bloody hot to live. Stupid house-elves. I'm  
going to make them fetch us something cold to drink."

"Good idea." Harry watched Draco go, the long lines of  
his slim, muscled frame. Then he sat up, wondering how  
Draco would react if he said he wanted to borrow a  
robe. Wearing anything in such heat seemed  
unimaginable, but sometimes concealment felt like a  
good idea.

The wardrobe would hold dressy clothing, furs and  
silks, all of it appropriate for Ministry functions  
and none of it interesting to Harry. He opened a few  
boxes – heavy oak, with iron padlocks Draco hadn't  
bothered to use – and found only junk: spellbooks and  
broomstick-maintenance kits. After a moment's  
hesitation, he knelt by the bed and pulled out a  
battered brass case he found there. No spell was  
needed to pry off the lid.

"Lemonade. Can you believe that's all they've got?  
Pumpkin juice would –" Draco's voice trailed into  
silence. Harry did not turn to face him, just looked  
down at the brass case's contents.

The black robe, the green mask: They might as well  
have been in the center of a spotlight. Death Eater's  
garb.

Harry heard a soft clanking that was undoubtedly Draco  
putting the tray down. Then he felt hands on his  
shoulders turning him around. As Harry stood, heir  
eyes met. "What were you doing?" Draco asked.

Just like Draco, to begin with a demand. "I wanted a  
robe."

"It's nothing. You know that, right?" Draco was  
already relaxing, settling into some semblance of  
calm. "Pranks on Muggles who've got it coming."

How much could he possibly accept? Harry didn't have  
much time to answer that question. "Death Eaters serve  
Voldemort," he said. "Some of them tortured me." He  
didn't add that Draco's father had been among those;  
either Draco already knew that or he never needed to.

"That's not what it's about! Not for me, anyway."  
Draco hesitated, then stepped closer, putting his  
hands on Harry's shoulders. It was a gentle gesture,  
lover-like, in a way very few things were between  
them. Harry tried not to reveal his surprise. "Maybe I  
hear them talking sometimes. But none of that concerns  
me – or you. Neville was the one they were after, and  
they got him, and you're safe. Got that, Potter? Safe  
as houses."

"Are you protecting me?" How good that would be, to  
believe in a protector.

Draco smirked. "No need. I'm enjoying you, that's  
all." But his voice was a little quieter as he added,  
"Don't get any other ideas."

"Never," Harry said, in a way that made it a lie. When  
they kissed the next time, it was different than it  
had ever been before – deeper, softer, more true.

As they fell back into bed, Harry turned away, so he  
wouldn't have to see the mask grinning at him from  
within the case. Betrayal took so many forms, visible  
and invisible, always in shades of gray.

**

The portraits in Dumbledore's office pretended to be  
reading or doing a bit of mending, but Harry wasn't  
fooled. They were listening raptly, as well they  
might; he figured his conversation made an interesting  
change from second-years confessing to cheating on  
their homework.

"You're quite sure, Harry?" Dumbledore twirled a quill  
between his fingers.

"I can't yet be positive. But I think Draco's  
involvement in the Death Eaters is exactly what he  
told me, and no more." Harry slumped back in the soft  
chair. "But he hears the Death Eaters talk, and that's  
just as good. Better, maybe."

Dumbledore's eyes were sad behind his half-moon  
spectacles. "When you suggested this charade to me  
months ago, you thought there might be far more to  
Draco's involvement. I would never have aided you in  
this if I hadn't agreed."

Harry often wished he'd been able to hear Dumbledore's  
conversation with the school regents about Draco's  
private room. Had the old man really been able to  
sound surprised? "We've learned a lot about the  
Malfoys this year. We know that they're still  
convinced Neville was the boy from the prophecy. It's  
enough, isn't it?"

"Perhaps, for the purposes of the Order." Dumbledore  
considered Harry carefully. "But the consequences for  
you, Harry – for you as a person –"

Ron's voice rang in his memory: He could turn around  
and tell his friends everything you do, everything you  
say. Betray you in the worst way anybody could ever  
betray anyone.

"We're fighting a war," Harry said. "After Voldemort's  
dead, then we can worry about – stuff like that."

"Honor, and friendship, and love." For a moment  
Dumbledore bowed his head. "After the war."

For no reason he could name, Harry found himself  
thinking once more about the method to cut away a  
bat's wing, how to know what to save for use and what  
to cast aside. The living creature the bat had been  
was forgotten, because it had to be. You couldn't brew  
potions any other way.

**

THE END


End file.
